A thousand years from now, no one will know what we were talking about. Scotch tape. Milk. Mailbox on the corner where you would run to drop a letter in that metal swinging mouth before the pickup time. There goes the little mail truck. You missed it again. The languages that were buzzing like bees all over the planet, angrily, will have calmed down. The languages will have flowed into each other like violent seas that chilled out, that connected to become one languid ocean with slight tides. The libraries will be everywhere, inside us, nano-libraries of all the dead and their voices with us. The dead inside our bodies streaming through our blood, talking when we are ready to listen. They will tell us of wars. And we will wonder what that was like. We will listen to thousand year-old-haiku about crickets translating the stars at night. And we will go to the balcony and listen to those same crickets. Sometimes they will all stop their chirring at once. It’s spooky. As if the universe stopped moving. That rare moment of listening. Someone will think of touching someone they don’t really know at all. In that moment. But there will be a thousand years between them. Between their rare dark bodies. Because most of the body is inside. Most of the body is darkness. So they will smile into the night and just go back to sleep. Sleep, the eternal thing. We are only the rare haunting of sleep. Something flows secretly like milk, into the quiet infant. Something flows like ink. Back a thousand years ago, when there was ink.